


from shaky hands to a last embrace

by Anonymous



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, Just Pain in General, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, at least not yet, i let go of all inhibitions and revert to my natural state as a feral angst monster, nothing too graphic honestly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 03:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Whumptober prompts, what's more to say.





	from shaky hands to a last embrace

**Author's Note:**

> Hey uhhh… this is trash but like, this is the first time ive been able to keep up with one of these challenge things and i guess that counts for something. i'll be dumping these out weekly because they're short as hell, a couple hundred words is usually all i can manage
> 
> For browsing ease, here’s a list of the recipient(s) of pain for each prompt, and any notes of interest about them:
> 
> 1\. Jeremy, Trevor, YDYD  
2\. Michael  
3\. Trevor  
4\. Trevor  
5\. Gavin, Geoff  
6\. Ryan, Jeremy  
7\. Alfredo, YDYD2

  1. Shaky hands

"What did you do?" Trevor asks from the doorway. His eyes are wide from the dark, and probably from fear, and his voice trembles like a leaf. "Jeremy, _ what did you do? _"

"Don't worry about it."

Jeremy’s shaking hands give him away. So does the bow dropped at his feet. So does Ryan's body, crumpled on the ground, arrow sprouting from his shoulder.

Trevor sees it all. The color’s drained from his skin, eyes wild. Devastated that in such a short time, they're the last two here. Terrified, as well. Trevor shouldn't be in this much pain, Jeremy thinks. None of them should be.

"Everything's going to be okay."

"Don't do it."

"Come here, Trevor."

Trevor runs the other way, into the house. A moment later Jeremy sees him, climbing the scaffolding above the roof, where they'd meant to build and expand. Before everything had happened. With shaky hands, Jeremy opens the door, finds the ladder, and follows him up.

  1. Explosion

"We're out of stock," the dealer says, "Gonna have to wait a week for another shipment."

"The fuck do you mean you're out of stock?"

"Means we're out of stock, Mogar."

"Who the fuck buys out an entire stock of dynamite?"

The dealer shrugs. "I don't ask you what you do with my goods. Didn't ask them either."

"Whatever. Fuck you," Michael growls.

He leaves, slams his car door and screeches away from the seedy warehouse. Just his luck. Gets up early, leaves the penthouse before anyone else so he can settle this deal before the heist, and he gets stood up.

No loyalty with those fucks. Looks like he'll have to find some other rat to supply his explosives. 

What did someone need that much dynamite for anyway?

He gets his answer in the sound of an explosion. A black fireball on the Los Santos skyline. Michaels stomach drops all the way to China. He stops his car right in the middle of the road, stares. Red flames over a skyscraper. He’s oh so familiar with both those things. 

It can't be. It can't be. 

It can't be the penthouse belching smoke, crumbling in fire. But it is. 

He calls Geoff. Gavin. Jack. Everyone. Anyone. No answer.

Michael stares up at the rubble. Just his luck.

  1. Delirium

Awake. They keep awake the full 5 days they have him. Play this horrible, grating white noise and plug stimulants into his veins to keep him that way.

The first day, it's muscle spasms and headaches and tremors in his hands. He goes unresponsive on the third. By the fifth, he's bashing his brains into the wall trying to get it all to stop. It doesn't. They inject some other chemical cocktail into his arm that has him go lax, unable to move. It feels like sleep paralysis, though it lasts for hours, and he doesn't have the comfort of sleep.

That's when faces start forming in the shadows. When his mind stutters and frays at the edges. Then this terrified little bit of Trevor's brain finds a megaphone and doesn't stop shouting. You’re going to die here. They're going to kill you. The ceilings going to come down and crush you. You’re going to drown. Burn. Get eaten by shadow. Torn apart by dogs. Die, die, die.

Gunfire outside. Coming to kill him. The door opens. It’s Gavin. He's going to kill him. He's going to take his golden gun and shove it down his mouth and shoot. Here he comes, hands on his shoulders, propping him up against the wall. There's tears in his eyes. Gavin's going to kill him.

Michael shows up. Then Ryan. They're going to kill him too. A bomb strapped to his chest with a countdown he can watch tick away. Bleed out from a thousand cuts while a cheshire grin hangs above him. They're going to kill him.

Ryan slides hands under his body and starts carrying him away. Trevor can't scream, can't move, has no way to show the waking nightmare he's living in. They think the tears leaking from his eyes are those of relief.

  1. Human shield

"Nobody move!" 

The warehouse stills. Both sides, the Fakes and their enemy, frozen in place by the sight, by the warning.

In the center of the room for all to see, the gang's leader has Trevor held in front of him, an arm pressed against his throat and a gun against his temple. Blood pools at Trevor's shoulder. He'd been the one brokering this deal, had been the one closests to danger when things went sour, was the first one to be shot when the guns came out.

"Nobody move, or your pretty boy's dead."

The Fakes don't move. Wait for someone to make a call, but no one does. Just watches as the man drags Trevor step by step backwards. His men walk out the door. They let them. They can't risk it. The door shuts on Trevor's dazed, but understanding, face.

He understands why they made this choice. It's the wrong one, nonetheless, but be understands that too. 

There's no use for a shield once you're out of the line of fire. The Fakes hear a single gunshot and the screech of tires.

  1. Gunpoint

"Not that door," Gavin says through the comms. "Loada bumcheese if you go through that door."

Geoff snaps his jaw shut. Did... did he hear that right? Dear lord, please say he didn't hear that right.

"Gotcha," Jack says, blase, from wherever she is in the building.

Gavin's doing overwatch. Sitting back in some dark room with a dozen camera feeds glaring in front of him. Gavin's tripped a codeword. Bumcheese. There's a gun pointed to his head and he's being forced to speak.

"Gav, how's it looking ahead?" Michael asks, the same fake calm.

They know, they all know, but they can't show it. The cameras are glaring down above. There’s someone over Gavin’s shoulder, eyes on the screens, ready to pull the trigger the second he feels Gavin’s not useful.

"Uh... good. Looks good. Go ahead."

Geoff gulps. Can't trust that.

"Hey Michael," Ryan pipes up immediately. "Think I'll need some backup. Make your way to me."

"Really, Rye?"

"Really."

Michael grumbles but there's no heat in it.

"Won't want to go down that hall, Geoffrey," Gavin says, so quietly.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Best not to go that way."

"Got it." Turning heel. It's quiet. The entire building's become a minefield. Except if they make a wrong step, it's Gavin that gets blown to bits.

"Gavin-"

"Looks like I need to step out for a bit, loves."

Geoff's mouth goes dry. "Of course. Do what you have to."

"Take care—" It cuts off in static.

The comms are silent. They could still be listening. They could still be watching. Or Gavin could be gone. Geoff doesn't want to find out.

  1. Dragged away 

He was too close to the explosion. Much, much too close. Jeremy can’t feel his legs. Not sure they’re even there.

“I’m not making it out of here.”

“Yes, you fucking are. Don’t say that,” Ryan growls. He’s kneeling above him, applying pressure on a wound, but there’s so many holes in Jeremy’s body it doesn’t really matter. The rest of the crew hang around them. They watch on with sad, sad eyes.

“I’m not. Don’t waste your breath, get out of here.”

“Shut up. I’m not leaving you.”

The police sirens are getting closer. There’s something ramming at the door.

“Yes, you are.”

“You’ll have to drag me out of here.”

Jeremy swallows. Uses all the strength he has to look up at the rest of the crew. Meets eyes with Michael. Jack. They’ve got the strength.

“Get him out of here.”

They drag Ryan out kicking and screaming. But they get him out. And that’s all that matters.

  1. Isolation

Alfredo is alone. An entire pack of idiots and somehow he’s the last one standing. (Ironic, really.)

It’s fine. He gets used to it. The island is small but it has everything he needs. There’s a little pond of fresh water and a couple trees he can pick apples from. A grassy field, pretty flowers, a mine underground if he’s feeling adventurous. There’s the garden out front and the animals out back, and there’s more than enough to last. (The vines have started to wilt and the chickens are starting to look sick. He doesn’t know how to take care of them.)

There’s the house, still standing, with the tower as tall as ever. He spends a lot of time there, looking out. (Away from the blast marks in the entrance way. He still hasn’t fixed those. Doesn’t know how.)

It’s peaceful at night. The stars peek in overhead. The trees rustle. He sleeps to the gurgle of the ocean. (There are eyes in the shadows. Tridents in the water.)

It’s nice. Quiet for once, without anybody else around. (There’s something watching him around the corner. There are voices chasing after him. They’re angry and mocking and bitter. _ How was it you? It shouldn’t have been you. You didn’t save us. You didn’t deserve to live. You’ll never make it without us. _)

Alfredo is alone. And that’s fine. (It’s not. Not really.)

**Author's Note:**

> the hardest part of this is choosing who to torture so lemme know if you have a character you want to see more of.


End file.
